


Dimension PL-44

by orphan_account



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempt at Humor, Blood and Gore, Dependent personality disorder, Dpd, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Resurrection, Teen Angst, Temporary Character Death, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick is undead, Morty is a goth punk, and they don't always get along - but for the most part, all is well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Backstory (comic)

**Author's Note:**

> ask-pl-44.tumblr.com is the askblog, but i'll be writing fics about them that i'll post here and not there.

 

**Content Warnings:**  smoking, alcohol, death, blood/gore, scars, needles, and kidnapping.

...I promise this is way more lighthearted than I make it sound.

 


	2. DPD Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is mostly to vent about some DPD feelings
> 
> though it hasn't explicitly been stated on the blog.... yet (it might never be though)..... it is a pretty big part of zombie rick's character that separates him from other ricks
> 
> pda warning - but i promise it's platonic. you won't find any rickmorty in this universe. also tw for brief suicide mention

A dizzy, loud groan erupted from the hoarse throat of earth dimension Rick PL-44 as he slumped further into his ragged leather chair and kicked over his latest project in aggravation. He’d wanted to make a sort of memory gun that would make it easier for Morty to remember when he had homework or not (and, at the very least, make it evident about whether or not he had skipped class altogether - something Rick endlessly berated him on). This wasn’t working. Nothing was. His trembling, bony hand made it’s way towards his frazzled dead hair where it pulled in agitation, seeking some sort of grounding pain to help him find normalcy. Nothing.

 

Scooting back from his chair, Rick succumbed to the agony in his chest and opted to instead sit on the floor. He curled up in the corner, between where his desk ended and the washing machine began. He didn’t remember much about dying, but he did remember the mess he had to clean up when Morty brought him back. He traced the edge of the wall where blood had been spattered months ago. His blood. Rick shut his eyes and his body quaked, a grim reminder of who he was, what he was.

 

Nothing.

 

His thoughts began to drift towards the Morty he loved with every fiber of his being and had ultimately poisoned. Sure, Morty’s original dimension was no cakewalk, but Rick hadn’t done Morty any favors by kidnapping him. He would drink away the guilt on most days and tell himself that earth dimension Rick A22-H013 was worse, worse than he could ever be, but on nights like these there was no escape from the reality of the situation. He’d stolen Morty. He’d taken away any chance he could to give Morty a normal life. And sure, he tried to make up for it. He tried to be better than most other Ricks. He cared about Morty’s education, cared about Morty’s social life, cared about Morty’s mental wellbeing. He wanted to make up for what he’d done. But there wasn’t really any making up for it.

 

He was in the midst of weighing either sleeping or stabbing himself until he bled out (sure, it’d heal immediately, the weight of immortality gnawing at the back of his mind, but death was comforting for the few moments that it lasted) when the door opened, yellow kitchen light filtering in through the crack as it widened to reveal Morty’s unimpressed form.

 

“Ugh, why are the lights off?” he muttered, gloved hand tapping the wall for a moment until he found the switch.

 

Rick squinted as the light filled his lab; he wasn’t sure why the lights were off either, having not remembered doing that. Morty’s eyes wandered a bit in confusion when he didn’t immediately see his grandfather, but lit up in relieved recognition when he found him in the corner. Which, of course, transitioned immediately into masked concern. Rick knew he looked bad; his hair was messier than usual, he was curled up in the corner, shaking, and generally unresponsive to his grandson’s entrance. Still, he was trying to recover from some mild dissociation and didn’t have much power in him to small talk with the bane of his existence.

 

“Hey,” Morty’s attempt at greeting him was stale, even to his own ears. He rubbed at his arm, trying to find an appropriate way to approach his grandfather. He was no stranger to Rick’s episodes. “Uh, I was, thinking of going to a concert.”

 

The words hung in the air, heavy and apprehensive. Rick tried to form a coherent response, tried to think of something supportive and kind to say to his precious child, but instead of formulating a sentence he looked away and gave a slight nod. Morty stepped forward, and with apparent hesitance, crouched down a foot or so away from his zombie grandfather. He looked mildly uncomfortable, but at least not unfamiliar, both things that made Rick’s guilty emotions plummet deeper into the pits of his stomach.

 

“But I guess I could stay home. It’s- it’s not like I really wanted to go anyway, y-you know? I was just gonna go because- free t-shirt. That- that whole biz.” Morty murmured, teetering on a tone of impudence and sincerity. “I was thinking, maybe- do you wanna watch a movie with me?”

 

That got Rick to look up at him, eyes widening. It was rare that Morty actually offered to spend time with him. He knew Morty was only doing this because he was aware of Rick’s condition - as well aware as he could be, with how quick Rick was to avoid explanation about DPD, since the topic generally made him feel embarrassed and even guiltier - but it brought warmth to his heart either way and he nodded.

 

“Yeah,” he croaked, and stood with his grandson to follow him into the living room.

 

Morty pushed in a VHS of the first Pokemon movie and settled down beside him on the couch, letting Rick gently lean on him. The guilt overwhelmed and consumed him, but beneath it flickered the warmth of comfort that came from his grandson. For as frail and weak as Rick could be when it came to his dumb emotions, he resolved to the fact that he would always protect his Morty. He glanced away from the screen to look at the kiddo, curled up on the cushion in a NIN t-shirt and nestled carefully against his side, and thought that Morty would probably protect him, too.

 


	3. Suspended (comic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is older than the backstory comic, which is why it looks different. sorry about that!
> 
> also cw for drug mentions


	4. The Concert Sucked Anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gore / death tw

Rick could hardly hear anything above the sound of his boots slapping against the shiny polished floors of the shlak’khar metro coliseum. He could feel the bone of Morty’s wrist through his tight grip; he didn’t want to risk accidentally losing him to these god damn bureaucrats, what with how Morty was hardly keeping up, his agitated whining just barely audible to Rick’s panicked ears. He yanked his grandson around a sharp corner as hostiles trailed behind them with hardly any slack. With one hand desperately clutching at Morty’s arm and the other fumbling with the portal gun, still running, he was left open to the shlak’khar fascists relentless shooting. There was a cruel reminder that gunfire from H’nharhn was composed of a tricky chemical ray that lit it’s victim up like christmas in new york, dissolving the flesh surrounding whatever wound was caused. This reminder, of course, manifested in the form of a well-aimed shot to Rick’s back.

 

His skin was incinerated, spine snapping in half and following suit just as his guts were surging out of his body so fast that suddenly, most of what was inside of him a fraction of a second ago was suddenly outside of him. His intestines tore through his skin like a monster clawing it’s way out, a variety of different organs painting the floor in front of him. Rick hardly had time to do much more than gasp as the upper half of his body collapsed and tumbled alongside everything waist-down. Morty swore bitterly as he was dragged down in Rick’s still iron grasp and tugged his hand away just so that he could pry the portal gun from Rick’s hand and aim it at the wall. There was a shot that nearly grazed his shoulder as he heaved Rick into the purple glow of his special gun, and the last thing he saw before the portal closed was the livid centipede-like creatures sprinting forth in an effort to catch them.

 

Rick was, to say the least, a mess. There was a smear of dark red that had followed them through the portal and puddled onto the floor beneath his broken body, pooling out at the sides and nearly reaching a very annoyed Morty’s feet. His intestines - what was left of them - splayed out over the edges of still melting skin, bits and pieces of organs sticking to the tangled mess. Morty could even see fragments of his spine lodged in varying places, jutting out from where they impaled the gory mess that was his body. Rick sounded like he couldn’t breathe, gasping for deep, strangled breaths and clawing anxiously at the floor, his body seizing and crumbling reflexively.

“All I wanted was to go to the Kra’lamar concert, Rick!” Morty griped haughtily. “If you’d just let me go by myself, they would’ve let me in!”

 

“Sh-sh-sh-shit-” Rick wheezed. “Put- put me back, Morty, put me back together, I can’t- I’m, it _hurts_ , it can’t heal unless I’m put back together-”

 

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for them to tour?” He snapped. “It’s been like four months! They don’t play live often, you know!”

 

“MORTY!” Rick screeched, cold sweat running down his clammy, bloodied skin.

 

“Yeah, okay. Give me a second.” Morty grumbled.

 

He carefully situated his trembling, blanched grandfather so that his separated halves were touching and sat back to watch. Slowly, flesh and organs began to reform, nerves and tendons growing at a rapid rate and spreading over each other to cover up Rick’s innards once more. Rick had been heaving and sputtering moments ago but slowly his breathing steadied. He laid still for a moment even after having healed, revelling in the relief at his pain being gone. After resting for a handful of seconds, he peeked at his grandson with a thin frown.

 

“You know I told you not to go to that concert. The shlak’khar fucking hate humans. If I weren’t there, _you_ could’ve been the one with a hole in your guts, and unlike me, _you_ can’t walk it off.” Rick lectured him, his glare steadily focused on Morty even as he reached around to dig through the orange backpack behind him for an extra shirt.

 

“No need to guilt me, Rick,” Morty hissed back. “It’s not _my_ fault that _you_ made them hate humans.”

 

Rick scoffed at him as he pulled a new shirt, identical to the last, over his head. “Two weeks.”

 

“Two weeks?” Morty parroted grimly.

 

“That’s right. No TV for two weeks.” Rick grabbed the mop in the corner and sprayed the garage floor with some windows cleaner.

 

Gasping as if offended, Morty threw up his hands. “What?! No way! Come on grandpa, that’s not fair!”

 

Rick didn’t respond, continuing to passive aggressively mop up his own blood, his brow and mouth stretched into two parallel, stern lines. Morty tapped his fingers anxiously against his hip for a second, before attempting a different angle.

 

Feigning sincerity and regret, Morty hung his head. “Look, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I just wanted to have a good time. Please don’t make me suffer for it, grampy.”

 

Rick paused, his expression hardening even further before he turned away altogether and started mopping with more vigor. Morty knew how to push his buttons. “...Fine. Just a day, then.”

 

Morty’s face lit up and he eagerly fist pumped, turning on his heel to scatter before Rick could change his mind. “Thanks grandpa Rick! You’re the best!”

 

Knowing Morty was probably heading upstairs to find a livestream for the concert on H’nharhn, Rick sighed, raked a hand through his hair, and berated himself for being a pushover when it came to Morty’s every whim. He paused in his absent minded cleaning only to rest a hand over his stomach, the flesh beneath his fingers having been eradicated just minutes ago. He wondered if, in an alternate universe, there was a version of him that had died from that for real - some Rick that wasn’t immortal and didn’t have super healing powers, another Rick with an impulsive angsty Morty. He shut his eyes and imagined, just for a moment, what that might be like, and suddenly didn’t feel so bad.

 


End file.
